


Roll Over Beethoven

by jamaillith



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamaillith/pseuds/jamaillith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey diddle diddle, sing the boys on the television, I am playin my fiddle, ain't got nothin to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll Over Beethoven

1977\. Two weeks into the Carter administration, and Star Wars is still a success waiting to happen. Chuck Manigone and Booker T & The MGs are playing 'Roll Over Beethoven' on the big black-and-white television set and Tony Stark is six years old, sitting on the rug in the drawing room, listening to his father and his father's best friend talk about how they're going to change the world.

'Word is they want review the entire goddamned program. Haul the whole thing over again.'

Tonight Howard is a man made up of heavy, pacing footsteps and the soft clink of ice in a glass.

'They did the same thing in the 60's and we survived, Howard, don't worry.'

Obadiah- although it's Uncle Obie to Tony, for now at least- is sitting on the wide leather couch, one leg planted either side of the boy on the rug, elbows on his knees so his big hands are vague pink shapes at the sides of Tony's vision. He smells like cigar smoke and cologne.

Tony is playing with a toy car his mother made for him, drawing it back and forth over the dark nap of the rug, enjoying the patterns its wheels make, the whirls and circuits and angled lines.

'I don't know, Obie,' Howard says, coming back over to the couch.

Hey diddle diddle, sing the boys on the television, I am playin my fiddle, ain't got nothin to lose.

'We'll be fine, Howard,' Obie reassures him, 'we've just got to.. lay low for a little while, wait for our opportunity. Things will change, they always do. They'll come around.'

'I don't know,' Howard says again, and there's a creak of leather and wood, another clink of ice, as he sits down.

Roll over Beethoven.

One of Uncle Obie's hands disappears from the peripheries of Tony's eyeline.

Roll over Beethoven.

'Come here.'

And dig these rhythm and blues.

Tony turns his car in a tight circle, then loops it out, sweeping it back and forth between Obadiah's expensive shoes.

There's applause from the television as the band thunders to a finish. It's tinny and flat but not quite loud enough to cover the sound of Howard groaning in the back of his throat, a strangely choked sound. On the screen, Chuck Manigone bows and laughs.

'Obie..' Howard says, 'not with Tony here.'

'All right, all right.'

There's more applause, and then Dick Clark steps into frame to introduce the next act. The leather couch creaks again, and Tony looks up to see his father standing in front of him, a mostly-empty tumbler of scotch in one hand. He extends the other to his son.

'Come on, scout, time for bed. I'll call Rosaline to take you upstairs. Say goodnight to Uncle Obie.'

Tony pulls himself to his feet and turns in the confined space between Obadiah's knees. Uncle Obie smiles a large, friendly smile and reaches out to put a large, heavy hand on Tony's head. He doesn't muss up his hair or anything like that, just rests it, the smile fading a little from his eyes, his thumb brushing the skin just behind Tony's ear.

'Goodnight, Uncle Obie,' Tony says, and now Uncle Obie does ruffle his hair, and the good humour returns to his expression, as if it never left.

'Goodnight, Tony.'

Howard's fingers press into Tony's shoulder, gently urging him away.


End file.
